


Conjectures Concerning the Foreshadowing of Things To Come

by Eglantine



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke, Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: AU, Canon Era, Crossover, Gen, Magic, Seeing the future, premonitions of dooooom, who cares about your lonely soul
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-20 21:49:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3666486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eglantine/pseuds/Eglantine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Les Miserables/Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell crossover. </p><p>It's not only England that has rediscovered magic. Courfeyrac convinces his friends to look to a different kind of ally in their fight to free the French people-- and French magic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conjectures Concerning the Foreshadowing of Things To Come

It wasn’t only England.

This became abundantly clear in the ensuing months, the end of 1817— that there was no such thing as _English_ magic, really, not without everything else, all the Gauls Gaels Celts Picts people who had come before and made it all up and then made nations of their own across Europe. There’s nothing, really, that’s only English, though God help you if you try to tell an Englishman that. 

This is not to say that all magic is the same.

“Indeed it is not!” Feuilly would explain. “Magic— magic exemplifies the nature of the human race. It is something any man has the right to acquire— whether he is granted that right is another matter entirely— but not in the same way. In every nation it is unique. This is why, try as great kings might to pick apart Poland, to chop up Greece— they can never succeed. For the magic will not be chopped up. It will not be renamed, it will not go away. There is Polish magic, and so there is still Poland.” 

But Feuilly (and the rest as well) was a child when magic returned to France. This is later. 

Lesgle has a joke, the point of which is, the French can domesticate anything. _The French create_ (he says) _the most glorious revolution the world has ever seen, and in a matter of years sweep it into a nice, simply tyranny that troubles borders, perhaps, but not minds and hearts. The French rise in the streets, for three days they fight to put down their king, and at the end of it, a new king tidies up the revolutionaries into his loyal subjects. Magic returns to France— and how long does it take?_

By 1831, one cannot learn magic in France. Patents for its study must be granted by the king (first the old king, now the new king) and they are granted to three families only, not quite aristocrats (for that would be lowering— to the families, not the magic), but near enough, wealthy enough that they can be sure to pursue it as nothing more than an idle hobby. (There was at one juncture a scheme to perhaps endeavor to marry into one of said families to gain access to their libraries— Courfeyrac would do it, of course— Courfeyrac came up with it, of course— but it came to nothing when the daughter took an instant dislike to him.) By 1831, what was unleashed has, to all appearances, been safely contained. 

But to certain young men, certain groups, the truth in fact is this: magic is the birthright of the people. Liberty, equality, the French Republic, are too. 

“So we will give France both at once,” Enjolras would say. 

Courfeyrac would add, “Just to save time.”

*

As Combeferre made his way down the narrow hallway to the back room of the Café Musain, he could hear voices already, though not distinctly— a low patter, a sharp retort. He slowed his step, uncertain if he should intrude.

“—only an idea,” drifted out the partly-open door. Courfeyrac’s voice. Combeferre gently nudged the door open and stepped inside.

“Ah, Combeferre,” Enjolras said. He could not tell if Enjolras and Courfeyrac were glad that he had interrupted, or frustrated to have their debate cut short. 

“I’ve had a thought,” Courfeyrac said. “Enjolras doesn’t like it.”

Enjolras looked poised to protest, but then seemed to decide that this description was apt and gestured for Courfeyrac to continue. 

“What is it?” Combeferre asked.

“We have all heard the stories. The ones they say aren’t true— peasant children who read a spell in the clouds, convent girls who bewitch the abbess—”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Combeferre said. “And I believe them. They match what I have read about events in England, shortly after – it happened.” There was constant uncertainty on this front, what to call what had happened with the English magicians, what had unleashed Europe’s magic. It was an effect with no cause, or no cause that anyone knew. Long English books had been written on the subject, and only Combeferre had the patience to read them, but as they all contradicted each other, he came away each time more uncertain than before. 

“Have you ever noticed what many of these stories have in common?” Courfeyrac asked. Enjolras was already shaking his head. 

“They come from the provinces, those performing the magic are often lower class, often uneducated…” Combeferre ticked the traits off on his fingers. Courfeyrac looked expectant. “What am I missing?”

“They’re almost all women,” Courfeyrac said, wholly unable to disguise his delight at his own discovery. “I won’t pretend to know why— I’m sure you can discover a reason— but suppose, suppose we were to bring some of the ladies we know, to see if they might, perhaps, have a knack for some of the things we’ve been struggling—”

“I refuse to grant you permission to bring your mistress to meetings,” Enjolras burst out. Combeferre sensed he was about to witness an argument that had already played out several times before his arrival. 

“That is not at all my intent!” Courfeyrac protested. “Combeferre— you cannot deny that for nearly a year now, our efforts have plateaued.”

He could not deny this. It came in fits and starts, their success with casting spells. There had been an initial burst of thrilling progress when their small group had first come together, when they had tapped first into the magic that, it turned out, was always lingering near at hand. Spells whispered themselves in the dialects of their provinces, traced themselves in frost on windows and muck on paving stones. But it became harder and harder to discover more. Weeks would pass between breakthroughs, then months. _We need books,_ Combeferre thought again and again (and Courfeyrac would tease him, _you think books are the solution to everything_ ), but all the wishing in the world could not bring them.

“I think it might be worth trying,” Combeferre said. 

“This is not some kind of literary salon,” Enjolras said sharply. “We are undertaking serious work.”

“I agree entirely,” Combeferre said. “And we shall make certain to invite women who feel the same. Don’t gloat,” he added to Courfeyrac, who grinned guiltily. Turning back to Enjolras, he said, “We must not overlook the women. In this or in any endeavor. They bear all that their husbands and fathers and sons do. They are capable of all that we are— and if Courfeyrac is correct, perhaps more.”

*

“Oh, I know,” Musichetta said airily when Combeferre sat her down to explain. “I know all about it.” 

The look Enjolras shot Joly and Lesgle made Joly shrink down into his seat, and though Lesgle retained his customary cheerful expression, the tips of his ears turned pink. 

“It isn’t their fault,” she added. “I don’t mean to shatter any illusions, but you are hardly the only people in France who have noticed that while the king may wish to outlaw magic, magic has not listened.” 

“Would all of France were so inattentive to the wishes of the king,” Courfeyrac said with a grin. “I’ve always known you were uncommonly clever, Mademoiselle Musichetta.”

“But that’s just the thing, isn’t it?” she said. “It’s not uncommon at all. Now, tell me what you have been trying to do.” 

“Our present efforts have been to create a spell to pass messages, unseen, from one location to another. Imagine, last July, if we had been able to pass information from barricade to barricade. Such a thing would be invaluable,” Combeferre said. “Now, it is said the English magician Strange was able to bewitch birds for this purpose, but we cannot find the way ourselves. He had books, of course…” 

“Did you use magic on the barricades?” Musichetta asked. “Last July?”

“Here and there,” Courfeyrac said, looking somewhat abashed. “We realized quite quickly that very little we’d found was of practical use on a barricade. They all take a great deal of time, you see. You know, they say the Englishman— the other one— he barricaded the English ports somehow, during the war —that could be of use, certainly, if you lasted the first day and had all night to get it working.”

“One thing at a time,” Combeferre said mildly. 

“Yes, yes, of course.” 

“A spell to see the future,” Musichetta suddenly said. This was very often how it went: the knowledge of a spell would appear suddenly, and not always to the purpose. Or at least not to any purpose of which they were consciously aware. 

“How far?” Enjolras asked. 

“I don’t know,” Musichetta replied. “A year, perhaps? Shall I try?”

“What good would it do?” Lesgle said.

“What harm could it do?” Joly said. 

“I’m going to try it,” she said, and the words she said next were in a language they did not know; a northern dialect, perhaps, Combeferre thought. They all fixed their eyes on her, and she looked back at them. A strange expression passed over her face— she was seeing something, that much was plain, but none of them could see what it was. She looked away suddenly and scrubbed her hands over her face.

“Well?” Courfeyrac prompted. Musichetta looked up at him with a smile that seemed somehow to be pulled too tight at the edges. 

“I don’t think it worked,” she said. 

“You seemed to be seeing something…” Combeferre suggested gently. 

“Not precisely,” she said. “I— I think something is going to happen. In the next year. Something will happen, something very— very big, I think. And you will all— be there.” 

The gentlemen exchanged glances. Musichetta’s discomfort was palpable, and none of them knew what to say, or dared suggest that perhaps she had seen more than she would reveal.

“Well, that is something, at least.” To Combeferre’s great surprise, it was Enjolras who spoke, Enjolras who pulled out the chair beside Musichetta’s and took a seat. “Thank you, mademoiselle. It is good, very good to know that we do not have much time to prepare.” 

“I would be happy to help,” she said quietly. “But I must confess, the things I have done, my friends and I— little things, they’re nothing like what you would require.”

“You never know,” Lesgle said brightly. “What sort of things?” 

“Silly things, really. Make birds sing, make a gentleman who is pestering you suddenly remember a very important errand, stop a—” She broke off. “Oh, well. I’ve never tried it with a _great_ deal of— when you prick yourself sewing, to stop the blood before it gets all over what you’re working on. As I said, I’ve never tried it on anything larger than a pinprick, but…”

Before she had finished speaking, Enjolras has wordlessly seized the cheese knife sitting on the table and dragged it across the fleshy part of his hand, the base of his thumb. Combeferre let out a cry of protest, but Musichetta grabbed his hand and began to speak. The blood stopped flowing. 

“Oh!” Joly said suddenly. “I hear it.”

And Combeferre realized that he could, too. It was as if another voice spoke as she did, a voice that sounded like the wind through the trees outside his childhood window, a southern voice, lilting the words into a language he could understand. The wound was not healed. But the blood stopped. 

“I think sometimes that the very stones of Paris would rise with us,” Combeferre said, the southern whisper still in his ear. “If only we could find the words to ask.” 

*

As they prepared to leave that evening, Enjolras drew Musichetta aside (much to her surprise). She glanced over her shoulder at the others, laughing and teasing one another as they put on their coats, their hats. None of them had noticed. She could only assume this was Enjolras’s intent.

“What did you see?” he asked. She felt very aware of his hand on her arm. 

“Nothing,” she said. And when he began to protest, she continued, “I mean it. Nothing. You all disappeared before my eyes. Just— faded away. Only for an instant.”

“A year from now? That’s when you looked to?” 

She nodded. “Well—that’s what I asked for. Who knows?” 

He nodded. He frowned and seemed, for a moment, to have his mind turned to something very far away— then abruptly he turned to her once more, his gaze intense, his eyes fixed on hers. She thought she could not have looked away if she wanted to.

“Tell no one,” he said. “What you saw.” 

“I will not.” It came out in a breathless whisper. Her throat felt tight. She swallowed, tried again. “I will tell no one. How could I? I don’t even know what it was I saw.”

His expression almost seemed to soften. “Yes, you do.” 

“Musichetta!” Lesgle called. “It’s no use flirting with him, it never works.” 

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she called over her shoulder with a laugh. “Goodness, you boys, so jealous. Thank you for permitting me to come, Monsieur Enjolras. I hope very much to help.” 

She bobbed a curtsey and bounded across the room to join Joly and Lesgle, who each threaded an arm through one of hers and departed the room with shouted farewells. Courfeyrac grinned as he watched them go, then turned back to Enjolras and Combeferre, who had lingered. 

“Well?” Courfeyrac said. “I was right, wasn’t I?” 

“I told you not to gloat.”

“You were right,” Enjolras said. “I think she will be able to show us a great deal.”


End file.
